Iron Quill - The Reaping - The Demon-Barber.

[Phototoxin]

My first entry. I hope it's enjoyable if nothing else! C&C welcome of course :-)

WC: 1500 on the nose so it is long.

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The Demon-Barber

Sonnia Criid surveyed the abandoned railyard. From her position atop a ruined station house the cold Autumnal wind was almost biting her cheeks as she glanced over the enclosure. “Not even Winter yet” she muttered to herself, not particularly fond of the cold evenings. On the horizon the setting sun shone though faded October leaves and were complemented by patinas of rust prevalent throughout the abandoned station. No one came here anymore. No one sane or living anyway.

“It is here misstresss…” gasped a squat, cowled creature which had stalked up next to Sonnia. The being, a former witch stripped of its heretical magics purified by Sonnias flames, then bound by occult Guild rituals, was one of the three servants which accompanied her on the clandestine operation. Their magic was now devoted to suppressing the powers of witches and more specifically, sniffing out their lairs.

“Spread out and move quietly” ordered Sonnia as she climbed down the station house into the railyard. By the time she had dusted herself off from the descent, the Stalkers had already scurried ahead, silent, seeking, hunting for any trace of her prey.

Looking around the orange and steel environment, the Criid recalled the disturbing rumours. The most credible spoke of some diabolical hybrid of steel and flesh infused with alchemy, soulstones and a thirst for blood. The victims had all been found scalped - the very tops of their heads savagely cleaved off like the shell of a hard boiled egg. Those victims who were found alive could only gibber in horror before succumbing to blood loss, pain and shock. The unfortunate civilians finding the remains fared little better until eventually the Guild interrogators deciphered something from a deranged witness; “Demon-Barber.”

Such names were often fanciful - the ‘Bayou Butcher’ after all turned out to be an actual gremlin butcher of pigs not some homicidal serial killer – but Sonnias preternatural instinct and the work of her Stalkers had assured her that this ‘Barber’ was a real threat to the inhabitants of Malifaux.

What sounded like a low wuthering Autumn breeze beside Sonnia were the three servants returning from their reconnoitre. “Thisss way…” hissed one in a soulless monotone as it gestured with one of its heavy blades.

There was no respect with the witchlings. No loyalty or camaraderie. Just pure, unadulterated servitude to Sonnia. This would probably have unnerved a lesser person but not Sonnia Criid; ‘Witchunter’, ‘Scourge of Sorcerers’ and the most recently peoples-appointed ‘Guild Guardian’ of Malifaux. She hated those names. Fanciful titles with no real meaning. Unlike the precocious Lady Justice whom the people saw as their champion, Sonnia preferred to be as anonymous as possible. Fewer attachments, less hassle and more often the element of surprise.

Surprise. Sonnia knew its power. Blowing down a door with a burst of flame and striding in only to point a gun at a suspected deviant dabbling with dark powers (who by then had usually wet themselves), often shook their resolve and they could be captured bloodlessly for trial. But against this ‘Demon-Butcher’ machination there could be no such advantage.

Skulking through the debris of ruined rails, girders and the skeletons of disused train carriages with the Witchlings close beside her, Criid stopped, silently holding up a hand. The Stalkers paused in synchrony and drew their pistols. Sonnia smelled blood, it’s unfortunately familiar coppery tinge to the air was tempered with putrefaction. The stalkers turned their heads and she heard an unnatural ‘sniffing’ sound come from beneath their hooded faces. One pointed with its pistol towards a mound of debris, a pile of rusted, crumbling train wheels, each about eighteen inches in diameter. Creeping closer Sonnia unsheathed her sword.

Forty-three inches of tempered steel, sharpened to perfection on a soul-infused whetstone and carved with runes of conflagration, immolation and banishment. The secrets of the runes were only known to few within the guilds armourers. It was the exemplar on which the Stalkers own rune-swords were based. Though unlike Sonnias’, they were as close to ‘mass produced’ as any magical sword could be and thus not as powerful, though this was in small part compensated by the fact that each Stalker carried a pair.

One of the Stalkers approached the pile sniffing as it did so. Reaching the stack of wheels it peered at one that appeared embedded in the ground. Lifting it up the scent of rotting meat assailed Criids’ nostrils as the concealed stash was revealed. Suppressing a dry cough brought on by the nauseous contents, Criid edged closer slowly, for the stench was horrific. She dispelled darkness of the hole was a minor flare emanating from her hand which gently bobbed down into the pit like an orange will-o-wisp. The flickering light revealed a crimson slicked pile of sodden tufts, like patches of grass pulled up from a field. Some were impaled on the wall of this shaft by rail spikes, others by what appeared to be sharpened ribs. What she saw before the light fizzled away was enough to confirm that the Demon-Barber’s lair was nearby.

A mixture of fear-tinged excitement coursed through Sonnia, adrenaline sharpening her senses and tightening the grip on her rune-blade, the soulstones in it’s pommel glinting in the nearly set Sun.

A slight tinkle of metal, like a pin hitting a tile, caused the quartet of hunters to spin about.

Nothing.

Criids bright green eyes squinted, analysing the direction of the sound for the slightest indicator of movement. Suddenly it emerged.

Thirteen feet of flesh and metal, stitched and stapled together. Tubes connecting various harvested organs together and pumping a vile necromantic ichor around it’s body. It’s left hand ended at a stump upon which tubes and bolts connected what appeared to be a large, blood stained and rusted straight-razor to it’s ‘arm’. It’s ‘eyes’ were embedded, unrefined soulstones, glinting with foul energies which looked at the hunters. With a sharp grating sound the straight razor blade flicked out and the thing lunged at the party.

Criid skipped back, easily avoiding the blade which swooped over the head of the nearby Witchling. Gripping her sword and pulling energy from one of the soulstones she conjured a column of flame to engulf the beast. Skin crackled and the stench of burned flesh filled her nose. The Stalkers pressed the attack firing shots from their pistols. All three hit their mark but seemed to do little to halt the burning monster.

A dull roar emerged from the stitched orifice that served as a mouth and it swung a meaty open arm towards the nearest Stalker. The diminutive creature flew into the pile of wheels as the beast connected, the flickering flames in its eyes growing dull as it’s crumpled corpse scattered the metal discs around the trainyard. Blinded by its fury and its smouldering flesh the Demon-Barber lurched in a wild frenzy.

Sonnia focused her mind calling forth an even more intense blaze ready to immolate this monster. The remaining two Witchlings, unbothered by the demise of their companion, fought to buy their mistress time to cast her spell. They ran at the Barber with their dual blades hacking at its meaty legs. Each blow made a dull ‘thwack’ while black, resinous ichor oozed out of the superficial wounds, thickening on contact with the air to seal the wounds.

Unfazed the Barber snatched one of the Witchlings by the head and threw it at Sonnia. It took all of her resolve not to move and loose her focus despite seeing that the living missile would miss her by a factor of mere inches. The remaining Stalker took advantage of the opening and forced both it’s blades upwards into the beasts exposed torso, both blades simultaneously piercing its leathery piecemeal hide. It emitted a low groan of pain from its partially stitched mouth as it tried to swipe at the Stalker with it’s blade only managing a glancing blow which knocked the being prone.

Seizing her chance Criid unleashed the pyrokinetic energies coursing through her, consuming another of the stones on her blade which channelled the power.

Green eyes blazed red and her auburn hair whipped upwards with coruscating forces as an intense wave of flame rushed towards the Barber. Almost white hot, the damp Autumn air hissed as the torrent manifested, the earth scorched beneath the billowing holocaust until impacted the creature. Even the tattered robes of the nearby Stalker began to smoulder in the heat.

Criid could hear it’s skin blister and crackling like that of a roast pig as she continued to press the energies into the monster. Pain surged across her cheeks from gritting her teeth in concentration. She could not see for the heat haze, smoke and dust that billowed around the three combatants. Until finally, slumped onto one knee, all but exhausted from her exertions, she stopped.

“Mistresss?” hissed the Stalker.

“Home.” said Criid, walking towards the setting Sun as the charred ash of the Barber’s remains began to disperse in the wind.